Like many anthophiles, I hold a deep affection for blooms.
That day, I wandered into the flower market—a riot of colors greeted me,
each flaunting its unique charm, vying for attention.
I drifted among the blossoms,
unmoved by their flamboyant displays,
until I paused before a pot of camellias.
After a moment of hesitation, I brought it home.

It stood quietly, as though gazing back at me,
still striving to drink in sunlight and dew.
I sit by the window, staring at it in a daze,
wishing I could shed all worries and tend only to this plant.
I once fantasized that flowers could cure all ills,
heal a soul stained by worldly noise.
Yet reality refused to grow lighter—
days still brim with chores to untangle,
relationships as knotted as ever.
The flower didn’t free me from life’s grip;
it simply softened my windowsill with a stroke of green,
an accent to my mundane world.

Then one day, a tiny bud unfurled.
I watched, resisting the urge to photograph it,
and sat by the window, lost in thought,
my heart a storm of emotions—
like a parent witnessing their child’s first steps,
yet tinged with guilt.
My neglect had denied this camellia
a perfect home to thrive,
but seeing it persevere,
a weight lifted.
I swore to myself: No more complacency.
May this camellia grow strong.